


Get On My Level

by NeonGreenSoul



Category: Kim Kardashian: Hollywood
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Rival Sex, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonGreenSoul/pseuds/NeonGreenSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's this rivalry really about?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get On My Level

`**Willow Pape** @WillowPape`  
`Bitch, get on my level or get out of my way.`

You roll your eyes. Your thumb drifts over the reply button. Maria is going to be so pissed about this, but fuck it. It's Willow Pape. You hand your new Nokia Lumia to the door man at Lif and tell him to lay down on the ground to get a picture of you. A year ago he'd have sent you to the back of the line for that, but not anymore. Charlie is a doll and and he'd do anything for you these days.

`@WillowPape omg my ass DOES look fantastic from down there on the B-List <3`  
`pic.twitter.com/...`

You hit send.

`**Willow Pape** @WillowPape`  
`This bitch thinks I was talking to her #rachet ass? #STALKER`

There was a time when you thought Willow would be a serious rival. Back when you were still starting out and she rolled in to Oak that night with those perfect ring curls and those bright red, half-pout lips—she has the look for it, no one would deny that. But now you realize she's as #ratchet as that hashtag she misspelled and ain't nothing gonna change that.

You put Willow Pape's disgustingly perfect legs out of your mind because you've got a night of partying with the Immaculate promotions crew ahead of you, and you don't need her cute sneer bringing you down. First you make the rounds, saying hi to Natalie Graham (holy shit, Natalie Graham is here!) and getting selfies with your girls, Zoey and Ava. Then you buy a round. Immaculate Premium doesn't go down as smooth as you say it does, but whatever. They pay you enough that you'll say it tastes as sweet as Willow Pape's cherry lip gloss if you have to. Not that you know that Willow Pape has cherry-flavored lip gloss, or anything. It just seems like something she'd wear.

M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" starts playing, and Zoey and Ava scream. Your girls charge out to the dance floor. Leah gives you a dirty look from behind the bar so you shout, "This is is my jam!"

"This is my jam!" some blonde standing behind you has the audacity to shout at the same time.

You're about to give her basic ass the glare of death when you realize she's wearing the same outfit as you: white silk blouse showing off those gorgeous shoulders tucked into that fun, red circle skirt, cut high enough above the knee to make you wish you weren't wearing those Gucci stilettos. She doesn't even need to turn around before you recognize her.

Willow fucking Pape.

"I'm gonna have to burn this outfit now," you say, loud enough to get her attention.

"With you still in it, I hope," she says. She purses her lips, and if she didn't look so annoyed you'd swear she just eyefucked you. "Can't I go anywhere without you stalking me?"

"Everybody who is getting paid to be at this event, raise their hand." You raise your hand. Willow doesn't. "Who's stalking who?"

"Well, if you like Immaculate so much, why don't you try wearing it?"

She dumps her drink over your head. The vodka stings as it drips down your forehead and into your eyes. It soaks into your blouse making it cling to your chest. So you toss your drink at Willow to wash that smug grin off her adorable face. She tries to dodge but fails, like she fails at everything in life, slipping in the puddle _she_ created. She lands on her ass with a face full of Immaculate Premium. That bitch just cost you a $14 drink and half a million fans, but the stunned rage on her face right now is priceless. Your girl Ava gets a selfie with Willow behind her.

`**Ava Walsh** @HerRealnessAva`  
`Sayin a prayer for the basics, Lord. pic.twitter.com/...`  
`1 retweet 1 favorite`

Head high, you stride confidently into the restroom to towel off and fix your makeup, leaving her to stew in her own poor decisions. Unlike her, you _worked_ your way up, and you don't need a stylist to look as gorgeous as she does. You can do that all on your own, so there ain't no way you're letting some no account B-Lister ruin your night.

The door to the ladies restroom slams open, and Willow charges at you. The restroom attendant wisely ducks out while the door is still closing.

"I fucking hate you!" Willow shrieks, throwing her Fendi bag at you. "You think you're so perfect, with your _Femme_ cover, and modeling Kim's swimsuit line. That was supposed to be _my_ feature!"

What you remember from the swimsuit shoot was how inadequate you felt next to the majestic curves of Kim herself, and this girl is jealous of _you?_ You try to think of something witty to snap back with, but all you can think of is the how well Willow would fill out that bikini. Around the time you're picturing her in Misty Levin's new swimwear line, Willow smacks you across the cheek.

"Not such a smart mouth when you're getting slapped in it, huh? Your mouth, I mean!"

At first you wonder who would ever need clarification of that, then you realize you're standing with her. "With lines like that, at least no one will be accusing you of having a _smart_ mouth."

Unleashing a war cry worthy of a woman psyching herself up to kill for the last knock-off Prada belt in the store, Willow tackles you. It's all fingernails and hair as you wrestle on the slate tile floor, both of you still wet from the thrown drinks. You scurry away and nearly get to your feet, but she gets a solid grip on your blouse and yanks you back. As you tumble backwards onto her, you hear the unmistakeable sound of fabric ripping.

Disbelief and outrage bubble up within you. "I just bought this, you uncultured shit!"

"Well, _I've_ had it for months," Willow replied. "So there!"

"And you still wore it?"

While she's still sputtering for a retort, you grab two fists full of her blouse and return the favor. She rolls on top of you, pinning you against the floor and punching you in the ribs. Her full weight presses down on you, and her torn blouse hangs open. Her braless chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. What remains of your own vodka-soaked shirt chills you, but you're already sweating.

With your free hand you catch her below the left eye with a closed fist. You never realized how much it hurts to punch someone's cheek bone before. You want to make a joke about her thick skull but you're too busy shaking the pain from your hand.

"Ow! Jesus, not in the face, bitch!" She's invoking rule #1 of the Model's Girl-fight Code after hitting you in the face first? Well at least you can still call her #ratchet ass out for it.

"What? Can't afford to fix it? With a face like that, how will they know what I broke?" you reply. You throw another punch aimed at her torso but she catches your wrist. Maybe you let her catch it. Maybe your next punch wasn't meant to land at all. Willow pins your wrists above your head, scratching your new Elizabeth Korkov bracelet on the rough floor. You put it on her tab.

Quiet, and dangerous, she mutters, "You. Take. That. Back." You thought you'd seen hate in your rival's grey eyes before, but not like this. You're close enough to kiss her, and you can tell that the alluring sparkle in her eyes isn't just her natural glow, but the beginning of tears.

"I—I'm sorry." You mean it. You like getting under Willow's skin (maybe a little too much but w/e, she started it, ffs) but you never meant to hit a real soft spot. "I like your face." That came out poorly. You blame the Immaculate you're both drenched in.

"What the hell would you know?" she says. She rolls her eyes and all hints of tears evaporate, but she doesn't let go of your hands. Her pouty, red lips curl into a sneer as she looks down at you. You meet her gaze, refusing to peek down her open blouse.

The silence lingers longer than either of you expect.

"Well, I—"

Without warning, she presses those bright red lips against yours, cutting you off mid-sentence. At first you taste the vodka on her lips. It tingles in your nose, dry and sharp. She presses her lips against yours a little harder. Then you can taste it: cherry lip gloss. You snicker.

"What the hell is so funny about this, bitch?" Embarrassed blushing turns Willow's cheeks as red as her lips. Poor baby.

"Nothing," you say, and lean up to kiss her again.

Willow's perfectly manicured fingers slide into your open blouse and you inhale sharply. She twirls them around your left nipple and you can't help but squirm. You hate how good she is at this.

You dig your nails into her thighs, and push your way up. The two of you clumsily stagger to your feet, unwilling to stop the groping long enough to stand up properly. Willow refuses to let go of your bottom lip as you shuffle from the sinks to a stall. Lif's restroom is as chic as its VIP lounge, and its heavy, cedar wood stall doors are perfect for being shoved against by Willow Pape.

Willow presses her chest against yours, and you take her firm butt in both hands. She slides a hand up under your skirt, and runs a finger along the lace fringe of your underwear. You need her to cut the teasing bullshit. _This is why you're on the B-List, girl._ You slide your underwear down and she gets the hint. You sure as hell don't want those nails of hers up in your business, but she's doing just fi—oh shiiiiiiiiit. This is getting serious. You grab the top of the stall and kick off your Gucci heels; those extra four inches are deadly when your knees start to tremble. You can't suppress a moan loud enough to be heard on the dance floor, so Willow smothers it for you with a kiss. You can feel her red lips curl into a greedy sneer as she forces you to scream into her mouth.

Fuck. Of _course_ you would end up doing this in the restroom at Lif. You play at being a classy broad compared to Willow, but deep down you know you're both the same jumped-up trash you always were. There's a part of you that misses it, misses no one caring who you fucked on what nasty floor, or whether you wore yoga pants to the mall. But as Willow Pape plants another cherry kiss on your lips, you almost wish Zoey and Ava would roll in to get a photo. You _want_ to see the word "Rivalmance" on every magazine cover and #Hatefuck trending on Twitter. You think it would be fun to see the look on Maria's face when you tell her to confirm the rumors; because why the hell not?

You hate her. You hate yourself. But mostly you hate that you didn't get on Willow Pape's level sooner.

 


End file.
